


Til Chapter Three

by orphan_account



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Discontinued. AU. When the universally hated Mr. Gold discovers he's a character in a novel that ends with his death, he sets out to tie together his loose ends, change the ending, and maybe strike up a normal conversation with the beautiful used bookstore owner. If he doesn't evict her for rent evasion first. Based on the movie Stranger Than Fiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Meet Nicholas Gold

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU based on the movie Stranger Than Fiction. It’s not going to follow the movie exactly, but the BIG element is still there. Enjoy!

**Prologue: Meet Nicholas Gold**

"Bullshit!" The cry of indignation was punctuated quite loudly by the slamming of both hands to the counter, "This is absolute bullshit, Gold!"

" _Ruby_ ," was the low hiss immediately after the outburst, an old woman glaring at a rather…incensed brunette from behind the counter of a diner.

"Don't  _Ruby_  me Granny!" The waitress threw off her apron and placed both hands strongly on her hips, "This is the third time our rent's been raised  _in six months._ "

"Once bi-monthly," came the calm and unwavering reply as Gold took a step forward towards the cash register, and the more level-headed employee of the diner, "As per your original leasing agreement."

Though clearly not happy, the old woman hit the cash button for the register, the drawer springing out to reveal a few big bills and a stack of twenties. While she counted the money out, she made sure to continue the unwavering glare that had begun the second Storybrooke's chief (only) loan financer had made his way into the restaurant.

"Granny  _no_ ," Ruby demanded, stomping over quite remarkably fast for a woman in so tall of heels, "Do  _not_ give that man any more of our money!"

"Hush girl!" Granny snapped, double-counting the twenties before rolling them into a ball. Gold sneered at the manhandling. No doubt the woman knew he hated crumpled bills in his safe. "We signed the lease."

"Because it's the only lease in town!" The young waitress, clearly sensing a losing argument with the matron, swerved on her heel and pointed an incriminating finger at Gold instead. " _You._ How can you sleep at night? Running up the bill on decent, hard-working people?"

Two eyebrows rose, "Comfortably. Now, Miss Lucas, I believe my business is with the owner of this establishment."

Her nostrils were nearly flaring at this point. "You can't just waltz in here you mother-!"

"Ruby  _that is enough_!" Granny spat, slamming shut the cash drawer to punctuate her point. It worked, somewhat, as Gold's ears were spared the rather vulgar use of language and Ruby was shocked into silence.

For about a half second.

"But-!"

"Go out back." Granny muttered.

"I'm not going  _out back_ -!"

" **Now.** "

The girl actually stomped her foot. He almost felt compelled to give her applause for committing so well to the image of petulant child. Making an angry, huffing noise, she swerved on those impractical shoes, sending a glare that rivaled her grandmother's as she furiously ducked underneath the diner's bar and disappeared through the kitchen's doors.

Her grandmother just sighed, shaking her head and wrapping a rubber band around the stack of money.

"Is your customer service always so…expressive?" Gold asked, not with the expectation of an answer but for the opportunity to convey the proper amount of disdain.

"My girl's a good girl," the old woman said pointedly and with no room for argument, reaching over the counter and offering him the roll of bills.

Gold smiled, "I trust it's all accounted for."

Granny glared, "And I trust you can see yourself out."

He clucked his tongue against his teeth, "Now, now Mrs. Lucas. There's no need for hostility between two business associates," he soothed, reaching out a hand to take the money.

"Associates implies one's not getting robbed."

"You were well within your rights to review the lease's terms before signing."

"Gold?"

"Yes, Mrs. Lucas?"

"Kindly get bent."

The smile only grew, "I'll see you same time next month, dearie."

The door to the diner soon closed without more spectacle, and when Mr. Gold finally left the premises of Granny's the patrons breathed a sigh of collective relief.

**III**

_This is a story about a man named Nicholas Gold._

The air of Storybrooke had a bite to it as Gold sauntered back to his pawn shop, cane in hand and tapping with a practiced regularity on the pavement. As he passed several people on the road, most made an effort to get to the other side of it as quickly as possible. The rest merely ducked their heads down or suddenly became enraptured with their cell phones.

Speaking of. Gold paused in his walk when he felt the tell-tale vibration of phone call in his pocket. He stopped, pulling the cell out and scanning the name of the caller.

_And his Blackberry._

Ah, the florist.

_Nicholas Gold was a man of infinite numbers, propositions, and remarkably few friends. And his mobile managed them all._

He answered, "Make it fast."

_Every weekday, for twenty-eight years, Nicholas Gold would operate a pawn store from the hours of seven am to six pm. There, he would consolidate loans, barter goods, and negotiate rental agreements. On Saturdays, Nicholas Gold made himself available for legal counseling._

"Mr. French, I do believe the terms of the deal were fairly specific." Gold began to continue his walk, approaching the pawn store across the road.

_Every day before he opened the store, Nicholas Gold would tie his tie in a double-windsor knot. He would cleanly press his own shirts and trousers, as the local dry-cleaning service failed to put in the proper crease along the seams. His pocket square was always a complimentary shade to his tie, and would be evenly folded across three planes._

"I understand your plight, Mr. French. But I'm not in the business of handing out favors," as he made his way to the door, Gold leaned his cane against the wall and fished in his pocket for the key to the building.

_Every day, for twenty-eight years, Nicholas Gold would visit the fifty-seven establishments under his rental management for monthly payments. A civilized man, he would always conduct these visits on a Tuesday in order for property renters to organize their payments the previous Monday. For those unable to pay on that first Tuesday of every month, Gold would apply a quite reasonable 26% interest rate to the rent due the following month._

The key turned over the lock easily, and Gold lifted his shoulder to press the phone to his ear as his other hand reached for his cane, "You seem to be having problems understanding your situation, Mr. French, so allow me to clarify: your rent is due, in full, for the last six months, next Tuesday or I will be forced to appropriate what I deem as suitable collateral."

_And every day, for the last twenty-eight years, Nicholas Gold would spend 2.7 hours balancing his general ledgers._

Gold ended the line abruptly. The florist had been a rather pathetic pain in his side for the past year, barely scraping by on the agreed rental payments for his delivery van and store building. It had been amusing, at first, to watch the man struggle and create excuses every month, but at this point things were just beginning to cross the line from entertaining to taxing. And Gold was not a man in the business of losing revenue.

_Following the balance of his general ledgers, Nicholas Gold would then give himself to a twenty-five minute lunch break. This allowed him an additional fifteen minutes to review previous legal briefings._

The shop was dark and dusty as Gold made his way inside. He turned, flipping the pawn store's sign from CLOSED to OPEN, and then hitting the light switch with the same amount of practiced regularity. The light was hardly bright, a low amber at best- chosen to promote the ambiance of antiquity.

Gold paid little attention to such things today, however. He reached inside his suit pocket and withdrew Mrs. Lucas's cash, as well as the envelope he had collected earlier from Mr. Tillman.

_Then, later in the afternoon, after all his ledgers were balanced and the belongings of his safe accounted for, Nicholas Gold would then indulge in a six-point-three minute tea break._

Gold walked steadily towards the back room, sitting in his office chair and tossing his cane upon the desk.

_Outside of his shop and his dealings, Nicholas lived a life of solitude._

He pushed his good foot against the ground, wheeling his swiveled chair towards the large safe.

_He'd walk home alone._

Expertly, and with the same efficiency that his sign was flipped and his lights were switched, Gold began to dial the safe's combination.

_He would eat alone._

The dial landed on a number, then twisted back to another.

_And, at precisely 11:15 every night…_

The safe's door popped open, revealing thick but neat stacks of bundled bills. None of them were in a smaller increment than $2000.

… _Nicholas would go to bed, alone._

Gold's fingers pried open Mr. Tillman's envelope, withdrawing the neat, crisp stacks of fifties from within. The mechanic, at least, had the courtesy to keep his payments tidy.

_His Blackberry would rest on his nightstand, within arm's reach every night in the event of a financial emergency._

Satisfied, Gold then went to unroll the rubber band from Mrs. Lucas's unkempt payment.

_This was, of course, before_ _**this** _ _Tuesday._

It took several attempts to smooth out the wrinkled monetary notes. But Gold persisted in smoothing them until they at least resembled the crisp bills within the safe.

_On_ _**this** _ _Tuesday, Nicholas's Blackberry changed everything._

And somewhere, as Gold attempted to smooth out his earnings, a little boy named Henry Mills was receiving a toy bow and arrow set. His grandfather affectionately ruffling his hair.

And somewhere else in the sleepy town of Storybrooke, an irate waitress was walking into a small, used bookstore.

_If one were to ask Nicholas, he would say that this particular Tuesday was like all Tuesdays prior._

Gold licked his thumb and began the slow, methodical shuffle of counting up the month's rent from the diner, one bill after the next.

_He continued that afternoon the same way he always-_

Gold stopped counting. Silence. He shook his head as he once again licked his thumb and began to count-

_And he continued it the same way he always did-_

Gold stopped. Again. He eyed the bills suspiciously for a few moments, and when he spoke it was with caution.

"Hello?"

Silence was his only answer. He scowled, wheeling back from his safe to see the entrance to his shop. No one was there. When he went to count again, it was with an obvious hesitance.

_He continued it the same way he always did. When others' minds would-_

He set the money down on the desk, grabbing his cane and using it to prop himself up from his seat. He took a few steps towards the storefront, just to be sure.

"Hello? May I help you?"

Nothing.

He stayed standing for a few minutes extra before snorting, heading back to his seat. The cane was set down once again, and Gold picked up the money with a touch more reassurance-

_When others' minds would fantasize about their upcoming weeks or their potential dalliances with friends or family, Nicholas Gold just counted crumpled twenties._

Gold slammed down his money.

"Alright. Who just said that I was counting crumpled twenties?" He paused, the anger being replaced with unease, "And how do you know I'm counting twenties, crumpled ones nonetheless?"

There was no response.

He touched the money.

_Thankfully,_ _**this** _ _Tuesday-_

He removed his hand from the money quickly. Nothing. He touched it again-

_**This** _ _Tuesday, things were to be different for one-_

He moved it again. Silence.

With the furrowed brow of a condemned man, Gold picked up the stack of bills one more time-

_Things were to be different for one Nicholas Gold._

He dropped them, swearing.

Gold wasn't sure what exactly was happening…but if he had to wager a guess, he would wager that he was becoming subject to narration.


	2. 78%

Nonsense, Gold thought to himself angrily as he began to bundle his money in preparation for the safe. The voice, if that's what he wanted to call it, had grown silent for the remainder of his tally, and he was beginning to believe that this had all been some sort of gross misunderstanding.

Perhaps it was time to take an additional day off during the week. That was all.

Gold nodded, smoothly gathering the bills from the desk into his hands and moving back towards the safe. With steady hands, he opened the door-

_It was remarkable-_

-he closed the door.

Gold's brows furrowed as he went to open the door again-

_It was remarkable-_

He stopped. Maybe it…wasn't nonsense entirely. Though he had yet to rule out the possibility of an intricate prank being pulled on him by one of the many, many jilted denizens of Storybrooke. Sighing, he opened the safe's door completely.

_It was remarkable how the simple, modest elements of Nicholas Gold's life, so often taken for granted, would become the catalyst for an entirely new life._

The bell rang, signifying a customer had entered the front of the shop. The safe door slammed shut with a touch more gusto than the usual Tuesday count-up, and Gold reached for his cane, propping himself up out of his seat.

_Gold walked towards the front of the store, his polished, leather shoes gave a squeak in stark contrast to the gravitas of his cane hitting the floor-_

He stopped, looking down at his shoes. Experimentally, he wiggled his toes within them. They squeaked, and Gold consequentially began to utterly loathe  _ **this**_ Tuesday.

_And though this was to be, an extraordinary day, a day to be remembered for the rest of Nicholas Gold's life, Gold just spitefully thought it was a Tuesday._

He shook his head, pushing through the curtain that separated his shop from his office. He was surprised to see Billy there, the young mechanic from Tilman's. In his hands he was holding what looked to be an old engine, obviously there to make a deal for it.

"Mr. Gusgus," he greeted politely despite the chaotic mess that was his current Tuesday, "How can I be of service?"

The mechanic looked to the side guiltily, "Falling behind on my truck payments…" Gold knew, he received them, "Thought I'd try and sell some old motorcycle parts-"

_Gold knew what that old part was worth. And that it'd scarce be enough to compensate for Billy's extensive debt-_

Gold stared at the younger man contemplatively. Now was the time to see. Billy, though not the best at managing his personal finances, did have a sick, honest quality to him, "Excuse my interruption, but did you hear that?"

Billy blinked, "Hear what?"

"The voice, Gold knew what that old part was worth?"

The mechanic glanced at him while leaning away slightly, "I know, that's why I came in here."

The pawnbroker scowled, "No, Mr. Gusgus, did you  _hear_ it? Gold knew what that part was worth?"

Billy raised the hand not holding the motorcycle part defensively, "I heard you say it three times now."

"No, I…" Gold sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Nevermind."

Billy continued to stare, "So, uh…" he shuffled the part back and forth between his hands, "Did you want to buy it or not?"

**III**

Mr. Gold moved the antique bottled ship to a new display, unaware that it was the actually the same display and that he had moved it to the same display three times over the course of twenty minutes. His head was starting to pound, and he very much doubted it was a result of the dust in the store.

_Nicholas found it hard to concentrate on work. His thoughts were scattered, his mind elsewhere._

"One can only imagine why," he muttered darkly to that omniscient pest as he returned the ship back to its original place.

Across the store, two teenage girls were staring appreciatively at some costume jewelry. Gold had his suspicions as to their intent to purchase, mainly due to the word "prom" being mentioned several times. The one on the right, with long blonde hair braided into pigtails, turned to him.

"Hey, Mr. Gold,"  _And when his_ "how"  _customers_  "much for these"  _asked for prices_  "earrings?"  _Gold drew a blank._

"I can't come up with anything else with such inane commentary," Gold hissed under his breath, drawing a concerned stare from the girls.

"What?" Asked her companion.

_Thankfully, Gold quickly answered 13.99-_

"Thirteen ninety-nine."

_When in reality it was actually 6.99-_

"Excuse me, six ninety-nine."

_But with the special, it had been reduced to 4.99-_

Gold clenched his jaw, "Four ninety-nine."

The blonde girl with pigtails blinked, "So, uh…do you want to sell them or not?"

**III**

Archie hated Tuesdays.

It wasn't anything against the day itself, but the first Tuesday of every month meant that the timid accountant slash psychiatrist (he was a certified double PhD, and yet he still couldn't manage to find the right bow tie to match his sweater vest. Such was life.) had to deal with possibly the least pleasant member of the town. The loan shark, pawn broker, and generally unhappy Mr. Nicholas Gold. While Archie held nothing against the man personally, and on the contrary, he knew that there had to be some justification for the man's less than social graces, Tuesdays meant going through the man's  _extensive_ tax files, ledgers and budgets. And with Gold, there were always  _many_ sitting on the desk in his back room. And they were always untidy. It baffled Archie that a man so successful and shrewd could be so utterly unorganized.

So, that first Tuesday of the month, after getting his customary coffee from Ruby at the diner, Archibald Hopper had set out to Gold's pawn shop. Judging by the way Ruby's (already) darkened eyes darkened more, he judged that this was not to be a good day when settling the accounts.

And as Archie opened the store door, the bell giving its customary ring, it took him only one look inside the store to come to the conclusion that he was right. Just not for the reasons he thought.

Archie frowned with concerned as he took in the sight of Mr. Gold. The man stood behind the glass display, which he was using as an impromptu…ironing board.

"Mr. Gold-?" Archie carefully removed his coat, hanging it over his arm. Eight years of medical school, and fifteen in his field, had taught him how to identify nervous breakdowns when he saw them.

Gold's stare shot up, mouth stretching into a tight smile. "Mr. Hopper."

Maybe it was better not to ask. But Archie couldn't help but feel worried for the man, as unfriendly as he could be, "Are you…alright?"

Gold's hand clenched tightly against the iron's handle as he traced it back and forth over his unfolded pocket square.

The quiet reigned. Archie began to feel distinctly uncomfortable. He made to clear his throat when Gold spoke up first.

"Mr. Hopper, I believe someone is attempting to cause me mental discomfort."

Archie could see that. Tact, however, kept him from stating that. Instead, he took another step towards the display case, "And what makes you say that?"

Mr. Gold scowled. "You're a man of discretion, yes?"

This conversation was going nowhere safe, but it was for his honest empathy and professional integrity that Archie nodded.

The pawnbroker hesitated, hand still holding the iron which was not moving, and, judging by the faint smell of burning silk, hadn't been moved in a while.

"A man's voice is commenting on me."

Archie's eyes moved slowly from the iron, to Gold's face, and back to the iron.

"How so?"

"He's narrating."

Archie made careful movements to hang his coat on a nearby chair. He had the feeling that this was not going to be a short story, "Mr. Gold…forgive me, but you're…ironing on a glass case. What is he narrating?"

Mr. Gold inhaled so harshly his nostrils flared, "I had to stop ironing due to his incessant chatter."

"Chatter?"

He sighed, "Listen."

Archie watched as Gold moved his hand over the pocket square.

_As Gold pushed the iron across the now ruined-_

Gold stopped, looking up at Archie and raising an eyebrow in curiosity.

Archie swallowed hard. "I'm afraid I don't hear anything, Mr. Gold."

He scoffed, "No,  _listen._ "

_As Gold pushed the iron across the now ruined pocket square, the monotonous, continuous motion of his hands and the delicate hiss of the iron brought back peaceful memories. As the creases were smoothed, Gold let his mind imagine the spinning of a wheel as he brought the iron back and forth, constant and unending._

"There. Surely you heard  _that._ "

As much as Archie knew he should stay, he unfortunately had an appointment with Henry Mills in a half hour at his office across town. "Mr. Gold, if you need someone to listen, please come by my office anytime. Unfortunately, today I only have time to drop off those budget anomalies you wanted me to check into."

But Gold was now muttering to himself, "How could he know I imagine the sound of a wheel…"

Cautiously, Archie watched Mr. Gold as he dug into his satchel, pulling out two files. The one on top was thick, stuffed to the brim with paperwork. The one underneath it was scarcely a fourth of its width. "Mrs. Lucas's documentation and the rental receipt of the payments on the Storybrooke bookstore in the name of Belle French."

Gold stared at him blankly, before nodding- his mind being pulled from the imaginary spinning wheel and back into the world of hard budgeting. "Ah, yes, of course. Thank you," he stated, reaching for both folders.

Archie stared at Gold's hand before slowly putting the Lucas file back into his satchel. "I'll tell you what. I can take care of the Lucas file, and you just…" he placed the thin file in Gold's hand instead, "Give yourself a free afternoon, alright?"

Gold exhaled slowly, opening the French file.

"Yes, I suppose a quiet evening would be appreciated."

Archie frowned with concern again, "Are you sure you're feeling alright, Mr. Gold?"

Instantly, the dazed, confused look vanished from his face- replaced by the aloof countenance Archie had come to know very well in the ten years he had done business with Mr. Gold.

"Never better, Mr. Hopper. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must make my way to this…bookstore before it closes. It seems Miss French is behind on her payments."

Archie rubbed the back of his neck, but grabbed his coat, "Of course. But…Mr. Gold?"

"Yes?"

"My office is always open. If you need to, you know, talk."

**III**

"I don't know what you're talking about," Belle French didn't even have the civil courtesy to look at him while she spoke, focus devoted entirely to the stacks of books that were strewn about on the counter.

"The rental payment for last month, Miss French," Gold grit his teeth, beginning to grow irritated at the blatant disregard.

"What about it?" Again, she didn't look up, her hand going for a red stamp and opening up each cover, giving it an angry red stamp, pushing it aside, and starting the process over with the next one.

"You neglected to pay about a fourth of it," Gold's eyes followed the movements of her hands, trying very hard not to grow the slightest bit dizzy by the actions.

She snorted, looking up for the first time. He tried not to think of various shades of blue when seeing her eyes. That implied they were remarkable enough to try and categorize, and Gold was currently of the mind that the only thing remarkable about Miss French was her atrocious arithmetic and incomparable rudeness.

"I disagree, Mr. Gold. 'Neglected' implies carelessness," she grabbed a stack of books and walked around the desk, going to a ladder leaning against the tall shelves.

Said shelves held the dusty collection of Storybrooke's Story Books, which had the honor of not only being the sole used bookstore in town, but also the sole bookstore slash café. Story Books was…disgustingly quaint at best, an utter hovel at worst. Old, worn couches lined the sides of the store, with a barista's cart in the corner that served tea, coffee, and those…small little crisp things that the bibliophiles found themselves endlessly attracted to. Biscotti. But though the store itself was hardly on the top of interior decorating, it had a decent amount of customers, and Belle French was one of the few business owners in town who had never asked for an extension despite his assumption of the operating costs for the establishment being barely met. She seemed to have a loyal market.

Several members of which were staring at Gold with disgust. Apparently accusing Miss French of failing to pay her rent would not be taken kindly here. No matter, Gold was used to disgust.

Gold, irritated by her choice of phrasing, followed her.  _Crystal?_ Damn it. He wasn't supposed to be contemplating shades of blue. "Are you implying, Miss French, that you  _intentionally_ failed to pay the correct amount for the rent?"

Still not looking at him, Belle shuffled her books to one of her arms and braced the ladder with the other. "Not at all, Mr. Gold," she hoisted herself up a step, placing beaten down novels on shelves with the same practiced speed that Gold bundled twenty dollar bills in groups of one hundred, "I  _intentionally_ chose not to pay the same amount that you  _unjustly_ added to my father's loan."

Ah, that's what this was about. The  _florist._ She took another step higher.

"Miss French, the business conducted between Mr. French and I is perfectly legal, I assure you-"

This time she looked at him. If only to glare.  _Cerulean?_ Damn it again. Two more rungs up the ladder.

"Mr. Gold. Legal, as I'm sure you know, is not the same thing as  _just._ "

The next book was shoved rather violently into its place.

He mustered up a smile, "I'm afraid a subpoena won't discern between the two."

Her lips pressed together in a thin, thin line. "I suppose I should say I'm surprised." But. The unspoken word echoed throughout the building.

"The deal was fairly-"

"Specific. We're all aware Mr. Gold," Belle huffed, turning back to her shelving with a vengeance. "He's an old, sick man and you're taking advantage of the fact that we're in a recession."

"And you're using your father as an excuse to be late on payments."

"I believe I paid-" THUNK came the book as it hit the shelf with the same amount of force as a punch would, "-Seventy-eight percent-" THUNK, "Of my rent. Three days early, might I add. The additional twenty-two percent that is owed-" THUNK THUNK THUNK, "-will be distributed to you through the overage that is being paid on my father's. It all-" THUNK. "-evens-" THUNK, "-out." THUNKTHUNK, she turned.  _Ultramarine, maybe?_ "I'm not in favor of stealing, Mr. Gold. And I am perfectly fine with paying the amounts that were agreed to."

"The increase to Mr. French's  _was_ agreed upon, Miss French-"

Another snort. She was beginning to remind him painfully of Ruby Lucas yesterday. In the back of his mind, he recalled the two being friends or something, "It was a half a centimeter of print that led to an obscure footnote printed on the back of the contract."

"It is a legitimate document."

"It was highway robbery for money you didn't need and you should be feeling  _very_ ashamed of yourself." With all but one of the books sorted, Belle began to slide down the ladder, the remaining novel held in the crook of her elbow.

Gold's hand tightened its hold on the top of his cane. By this point, the patrons of the hovel-store were not even pretending to hide their entrancement with the bickering pair. Hushed whispers were traded as angry stares were sent over the tops of leather-bound editions.

"Let's make this simple then, dearie," he spoke, far calmer than what he was currently feeling, "Are you or are you not going to pay the remaining tender owed?"

She shifted the book from her elbow to her hands, flipping the cover open and beginning to read as she turned her back to him and walked away. He swore under his breath. Damn the woman with her  _sky_  blue eyes-

Yet again, he followed after her. This was all beginning to become unorthodox. Gold absolutely  _hated_ orthodox.

"Answer the question, Miss French."

A page was turned as she neatly sidestepped a drunk reading a book of poetry on the floor. Leroy, if he remembered the name right. Regardless, he moved around him easily enough as he continued to pace after the aggravating woman, "That depends."

"On?"

"Are you going to have my father's rent lowered to its original fee? Are you going to stop charging an arm and a leg for the good small business owners of this town to operate their establishments? Are you, perhaps, going to remove that cane from your-"

_It became hard for Gold to pay attention to the baseless accusations that fell from Belle French's mouth-_

Gold snarled, "Not now."

Belle whirled around, stopping in mid-step next to a long, oak writer's desk that held several unstocked books, "No, Mr. Gold.  _Now._ As I was saying, you are aware that Mrs. Shoeman has  _forty-seven_ grandchildren and you have brought her rates up  _twice_ this year alone-"

_-because as the vivacious bookstore owner continued to speak, Gold found his mind wandering elsewhere. It wasn't difficult for him to imagine Belle French, here, alone in the bookstore. Her small, graceful hands gently ghosting over leather spines. Her long, shapely legs taking agonizingly slow steps up the ladder to reach the tops of shelves. However, Gold was not prone to fantasy, and tried his best to remain professional._

"All of those matters have been legally accounted for," Gold muttered to himself, desperately willing away the images that the…whatever it was conjured out of absolutely nowhere. "And also fail spectacularly to have any relation to the original question."

_But of course, he failed. Gold couldn't help but wonder over the soft feel of her red lips. He couldn't help but imagine her leaning over her desk, back arched as she reached for that heavy stamp._

Gold's grip on his cane became tighter at the same moment that he found himself drawn to the areas that the narrator- gods, he was calling it the narrator now- described in such…unfortunate detail.

Belle lowered her book, a hand resting on her hip as her brows drew together.

_And he couldn't help but imagine her naked, stretched-_

"Gold?"

Her neckline wasn't low, but the square cut to the tight sweater was not helping Gold retain awareness as the narrator continued.

"Mr. Gold."

Were he able to hear the tone of his own voice, he would have been promptly embarrassed at the husky quality it held, "Yes, what is it Miss French?"

The book was set down harshly on said desk of his fantasy, the noise shocking him into awareness. And several of the bookstore's patrons into awareness as well.

"You're staring. At my breasts."

He felt the slowing of the heartbeat that only occurs when one is caught doing something one shouldn't be doing. Such as entertaining thoughts of naked, insufferable bookstore owners who were fiscally irresponsible and had soft red lips and he was going to be severing this line of thought immediately and focusing on the task at hand.

"Don't be ridiculous, dearie," he muttered, making sure to focus over her shoulder when he looked up. He wasn't in the mood for another synonym for blue, "Such a thing would hardly be appropriate towards a woman I'm about to take to small civil claim's court."

Belle bit her lip as anger overtook her features.

Perhaps it was time to leave.

"I believe now might not be the appropriate time to address your criminal behavior, Miss French," Gold said levelly, both hands folding over his cane, "I'll be back tomorrow with the proper documentation. Mainly the copies of the lease agreements both you and your father consented to."

Belle stood coolly, arms crossing just below her chest in a way that made the sweater stretch just a little tighter and that woman was doing this intentionally to goad him he was sure. "And I imagine I'll be here. With my proper principles." She glared, "And breasts."

Gold swallowed, but retained his aloof business approach. "Of course, Miss French. Until tomorrow."

Belle's mouth turned into a frown that signified oceans of unimpressed sentiments. She opened her lips to speak-

_As she began to chastise Gold for his blatant, yet desperate stare, his mind once again drifted to the smooth, creamy skin that peaked from-_

Gold turned and proceeded to walk towards the door without another word. A tad faster than normal.

As he left, a dozen or so bookstore patrons let out a breath of relief simultaneously. He certainly had that effect on people.

Once he was outside, Gold's calm countenance screwed into an expression of intense anger as he retreated from Story Books and walked in the direction of his shop.

_As Nicholas Gold left the bookstore, he felt overcome with emotions of embarrassment, belligerence, and confusion-_

That did it. Gold tossed down his cane, staring skyward. "Quiet, you damned thing!"

_He shouted, cursing the heavens above in futility-_

"Are you completely thick, you pig-headed narration?! I'm not cursing the heavens, I'm cursing  _you_! So, if you'd be so kind,  _leave me alone."_

Silence reigned. Gold continued to sneer up at the sky.

Moments passed. Several passer-byes stopped to watch the spectacle of their feared loan shark staring up as if he expected someone to bludgeon him with something dropped from a very tall building.

Nothing.

Exhaling with a resolute but irritated satisfaction, Gold bent down to retrieve his cane-

_It wasn't often that Gold surrendered his composure to passion. But the weeks of unending mundaneness had taken their toll on the businessman-_

Damn it.

_-and that, coupled with the strange attraction he felt for the infuriating yet captivating bookseller-_

Damn it all.


	3. I Have to Kill a Man!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for the comments and kudos!

_Jefferson Hattigan kneeled and tilted his head up, swallowing harshly as he watched a very thick blade be sharpened into a very deadly edge, and he was certain at this point it was only the grips of the guards on either side of him that kept him from morphing into a boneless puddle._

_The people watching the spectacle looked eager. The executioner, perhaps, far too eager._

_Before Jefferson could watch the whetstone pass under the axe for the thousandth time, one of the guards grabbed the hair at the back of his head and shoved his face down against a wooden block._

" _Off with his head!"_

_The crowd cheered._

* * *

Belle sighed as she cradled her face in the palm of her hand, the other aimlessly stirring a spoon around the circumference of a teacup. "It was horrible."

Ruby, across the diner's bar from her, pursed her lips in annoyance, "Of course it was horrible,  _he's_ horrible."

"That doesn't mean it's right to…" Belle waved her hand in a feeble attempt to express what it wasn't right to do.

"What? The rent thing?" Ruby threw a dish towel on the counter, placing her hands on her hips, "Trust me, that's the least offensive thing on the list of things Gold's got coming to him."

"Still," Belle sighed, raising the cup to her lips and taking an experimental sip, "He did give me the business loan…"

"Because he's the only one that does business loans in a twenty mile radius. It's robbery," Ruby cast a glance around the diner, and, seeing no one, made for a more comfortable lean against the counter, "And what he's put your dad through…"

"Right, papa." Belle groaned inwardly at the sorry state of affairs Moe French had fallen himself into. He was late on his rent, his storefront rent, and payments on his business loan and delivery truck. That, coupled with a few bad investments before the harder part of the recession hit, made for a man desperately close to bankruptcy. And that was before Gold heightened his interest rates and late fees.

Half of Belle knew that the lease, as terribly obtuse as it had been written, was still legally binding and Moe was obligated to pay, but the other half was tired of seeing her father constantly struggling while people like business tycoon Gold made off with their earnings. "I should have just asked him to reconsider the lease agreements," Belle groaned, "Or for an extension on the payments. How did I let you talk me into the rent thing?"

Ruby scoffed, "Don't pin this on me, Belle. You were the one going on about making a point and setting an example."

She sighed, "That was terribly heroic of me, wasn't it?" Belle deadpanned with a sort of self-deprecating smile.

Ruby snorted, but returned the expression, "Our knight in fiscal armor."

Belle slumped again, "Too bad that knight's going to be making a short charge on their steed."

Ruby raised an eyebrow.

"He's going to send me a subpoena."

"A what?"

Belle rolled her eyes, "He's suing me."

The waitress bolted straight up, "No way!"

Belle's only response was pushing the now empty tea cup forward, "I think I'll need the stronger blend."

"What's he suing you for?!"

She gave a sad lift of her shoulders, "I imagine the 22% I didn't pay, plus some made up charges like taking time from his work."

Ruby bit her lower lip, a guilty expression filtering through her face, "Can you afford that? I know the store's been…"

"The 22%, yes. The court fees and the other charges…," Belle inhaled. The idea had been to teach a bully a lesson, to…to stick it to the man, as Ruby had said. Not to put her business in jeopardy. She gave a somewhat bitter laugh, "I might need to take out another loan. The irony."

"Like hell you will!" Ruby protested, taking the tea cup and going to refill it, "Don't worry, I have some money saved up-"

"Ruby-"

"Don't Ruby me. Granny always Rubys me." Ruby turned around and gently placed it in front of Belle, "I'm not going to leave my friend to the wolves, got it?"

Belle smiled, taking the tea cup, "Got it."

"Good. Now. I think someone needs a slice of cheesecake," she grinned, going to grab some from the display case.

"Is cheesecake the traditional food for someone being brought to civil court?" Belle mused out loud, hating her situation but despite of it all starting to feel better. There would be a way out of this…kerfluffle. Even if it meant groveling. The only thing Belle knew she wouldn't do is close the shop or allow her father to declare bankruptcy. Both had been fought over for too long to just let them slide.

"I think it's more like the traditional food for someone having a bad day," Ruby said with a wink, setting down a plate, "It's also the traditional food to split, so if you don't mind-" she grabbed the extra fork and dug it into the cheesecake, smirking around her bite with red lips.

Belle wrinkled her nose, but the giggle escaped never the less. Yes, she thought, allowing herself  _some_  modicum of hope, things could be alright.

The bookstore owner went to take a bite when the bell by the door of the diner sounded off, both women turning around to see who had entered.

In charged a young boy, who Belle recognized as the Mayor's son Henry, and he made a beeline to the counter, placing both hands on top with finality.

"Grilled cheese to go please!" Henry beamed, smile breaking out across his face.

Ruby returned the expression, reaching under the counter and grabbing a brown paper bag, "I'm guessing you're late to school?"

"You could say that, I got…" Henry winced, "Distracted."

Ruby laughed, "Distracted? With what?"

Belle watched with no small amount of amusement as the boy's face lit up, "I got this bow and arrow set from Grandpa David for my birthday and it is the absolute  _coolest_ thing on the planet-!"

As Ruby and Henry began an animated discussion about Henry's new toy, as well as his upcoming visit to his mother's, Belle took a slow bite of cheesecake and allowed herself to become lost in her thoughts.

She could figure this all out. Her papa didn't need to lose his store, she didn't need to become a criminal, and maybe, just maybe Gold could be reasoned with. Staring inappropriately notwithstanding.

…or maybe she'd need another slice of cheesecake before this afternoon was through.

* * *

_The executioner hefted the axe over his shoulder. He stood to his side._

_Jefferson took a deep breath. He could hear the sound of the axe scrapping against the ground as the executioner swung it for the full swing, felt the slightest puff of air as it descended towards his neck, and the-_

… _and was that a knock?_

* * *

Emma was sure her fist was going to punch through the crappy, flimsy door if that damned moron didn't answer soon. It was late, so late it was early, and this had been the  _sixth_ consecutive week of this shit. Since she had moved in, Emma had been woken up at all odd hours of the night, the thin wall between her apartment and the one next door doing little to dampen the noise of what was obviously some kind of psychotic breakdown. At first she had ignored it. Her neighbor's business was her neighbor's business, but the strange sounds of plates breaking, angry shouting, and heavy thumbs continued. And continued. And continued continuing. And now it was 3am on a Tuesday night and, damn it, Emma was putting a stop to this nonsense  _now._

"Hey, open up," it occurred to her that in trying to attract their attention she was making just as much of a disturbance, but she reconciled the fact with the knowledge that this  _should_ be a one-time affair.

Should being the operative word. Emma vaguely remembered the sound of a man's voice chanting "get it to work, get it to work" over and over again for three hours last month. Not exactly a bastion of confidence in the sanity department. Just her luck, she moves from Chicago for a peaceful environment, she gets saddled with the eccentric homicidal murderer next door.

No wonder the rent was cheap.

Emma huffed, blowing strands of blonde hair out of her face as she raised her fist to knock again-

-the door slammed open, then back shut slightly. There was a chain on it that apparently the owner had forgotten. Emma was greeted with the disturbing sight of one eye staring through the crack.

"Who are you?" It asked.

Emma crossed her arms over her bathrobed-chest. "An annoyed neighbor."

"Oh." The eye hesitated. "Go away then."

"No."

"No?"

"Absolutely no."

It disappeared, and the door slammed shut. Emma could feel the frustration boiling under her like pressure in a volcano, "Look. You're being loud and rude as hell at all hours of the morning, and-"

The sound of a chain being slid was unmistakable, and it was quickly followed by the door swinging open. Emma had barely enough time to dodge out of its way. "The hell-?"

"I'd like to see you try being so calm and collected when you have to kill a man!"

The man looked. Well, he looked exactly like Emma expected a crazy man to look. He was a few years older than her, with brown hair matted in tufts on either side of his face. On the tip of his nose there was a pair of small, round reading glasses, fastened to his head with a thin gold chain. And he was wearing…was that an ascot? Who the hell wore an ascot? At three in the morning? Was the man expecting tea and crumpets and yachting and whatever the hell else people who wore ascots did?

At least the dark circles under his eyes implied that he had gotten about as much sleep as Emma. That was comforting. Sort of. Unless it gave more evidence to him being the serial killer neighbor.

"Believe me, it's getting tempting," was all she muttered, leaning on one of her legs. "And I have no idea whether to take you serious on that statement."

The man rolled his eyes and stomped back into his apartment. Seeing as he left the door open, Emma took that as an invitation to follow.

And then she wished she hadn't.

The apartment appeared completely normal for the first few steps. Clean kitchen, tidy dining area, and then the illusion of a sane man shattered completely when Emma took in what she guessed was the guy's work space or heinous plotting area. Either or.

A small work desk sat in the corner, holding a typewriter and a ream of blank, white paper.

Covering nearly every surface of the walls, floor, table, and yes,  _ceiling,_ were post-it notes.

Emma felt her jaw drop as she took another step in. God help her, she was legitimately curious now, "What the hell is all of this?"

"Notes," the man muttered, almost to himself, "I've got to get it to work."

"Get what to work?" Emma picked up one of the post-its.  _Buried alive_ was written on it.

She slowly put the post-it back on the wall.

"I have to kill Nicholas Gold."

Oh god. He was  _actually_ going to kill someone.

Trying to remember where she had put the pepper-spray in her apartment, Emma cleared her throat, "Look. Neighbor. Guy-"

"Jefferson," he replied quickly in his distracted tone, the man beginning to pace the length of his crazy person's post-it wall while rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"-Jefferson," Emma amended for reasons she wasn't entirely certain of, "I'm just here about the noise, okay?"

"What noise?"

"The ones you make every morning at-"

"What do you think about getting your head chopped off?"

Jefferson stopped, turning to look at her as he asked the question. Emma stood there with her expression twisted into one that, if nothing else, clearly conveyed the sentiment of  _what the fuck._

"I…think badly…of it?"

Jefferson waved the answer off, and began to pace again, "Some say it's the most humane way of death. Relatively painless. A human body can die in seconds from deprived oxygen to the brain-"

Okay. That was it.

"Give me one reason why I'm not calling the cops right now," Emma growled.

He stopped, frowning, "I own the building?"

Emma choked, "Seriously?"

A resolute nod.

Well, that explained why he hadn't been evicted. "Okay, one more reason."

The man who may have been a decapitating axe-murderer sighed, scratching his hair and causing it to go into a style even more disarrayed than his previous one, "I have a deadline to make next month."

Emma looked at him, then to the typewriter, then the post-its. Finally, something clicked. "You're a writer?"

Jefferson glared, pacing to his typewriter and sitting behind it, " _Novelist._ "

"And that…Gold guy, he's not a real person?"

The  _novelist_ rolled his eyes, "I don't make a habit of decapitating real people, nosy neighbor-"

"Emma."

"-Emma. Remarkably poor manners."

Dumbstruck, but definitely relieved, Emma pulled out a kitchen chair and sat in it, "So…all the noise?"

Jefferson winced, as if in physical pain. "Writer's block."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Emma looked around at all the post-its again, giving a low whistle, "So, hypothetically speaking, nothing is going to be done if I issue a noise complaint because you own the building?"

"I wouldn't say  _nothing."_ At her hopeful stare his mouth quirked into a grin, "I might use the back of it for notes."

Emma groaned, "Okay. Continuing this hypothetical question- you'll shut up if you…figure out how to kill this completely fictional guy?"

A moment's hesitation, and then a nod.

She closed her eyes. Why was she doing this.  _Why was she doing this at 3 am._ "Okay. Then let's kill him."

"What?"

"Don't tell me you're going deaf after all this. Let's get this show on the road and kill your character."

Jefferson stared at her, slack-jawed, "I didn't ask for you to-"

"I didn't ask to be woken up every o'dark thirty because a maniac in an ascot is thinking about decapitation too loudly." She said curtly, "So let's go. Killing this guy."

The  _novelist_ …pouted. "He's unkillable. I've tried it all. Hook to the heart. Poisoned apples. Nothing works."

"Something's got to."

"Nothing-"

"Something's. Got to." She yawned, "Or I'm initiating a hostile takeover of this place." She looked at the clock on the wall, "You have a half hour of my undivided attention before I go to bed. Get going."

Jefferson stared at her, as if he didn't understand why this strange woman would-

"Well? Start plotting or whatever you eccentric writer-types do."

Dutifully, Jefferson started to sort through his post-its.

* * *

"I think you should take some vacation," there. Archie had finally said it, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth he had to fight down the urge to break the eye contact he had established with Mr. Gold. Eye contact was crucial with propositions like this.

Mr. Gold looked up from a settlement he was currently addressing, eyeing his accountant from across his back office, "Is that so, Dr. Hopper?"

Archie swallowed, his bow tie bobbing up and down with the motion, "You haven't been yourself."

_As Nicholas sat in his office, eyes narrowed with irritation, he couldn't help but wonder why he was allowing this man to state the obvious. Of course Mr. Gold wasn't himself. Mr. Gold didn't give the wrong prices to merchandise. Mr. Gold didn't fantasize about long, wooden tables in the backs of dusty bookstores-_

"Your concern is touching," Gold sneered, pen jabbing into the paper perhaps a little too forcefully.

Archie sighed, a finger tapping the sum total button on his adding machine. Aside from the Lucas and French accounts, things were looking balanced for that Tuesday, "Have you…ever taken vacation? Ever?"

_Vacation. An insipid word to Mr. Gold. He didn't know why he continued to indulge this man with a response._

"It's been some time-"

"-because you left the iron on. Earlier," Archie turned fully from the adding machine, hands clasped together, "I noticed when I came back to do your sums. It was left on, something that could've been a horrible accident and not something I think you'd normally do." Archie cleared his throat, psychologist mode fully activated, "When you stray from routine, Mr. Gold, it's commonly associated with stress-"

_Gold knew he was stressed, and, quite frankly, he didn't need eight years of additional schooling to tell him he was stressed. Of course he was stressed. Stress was stress._

"I believe it's time to close up shop." He muttered, standing and reaching for the pawn store's keys.

Archie sighed, standing up as well, "If you insist…"

_Oh, Mr. Gold was insistent. He wasn't in the mood for coddling. Nor psychoanalysis. Two things that the accountant never fell short upon._

"I do." Gold stood.

_As Nicholas Gold prepared to usher out the simpleton accountant, he left his safe's lock unspun-_

He swore, backtracking to the safe and spinning the dial, "Damned idiot!" He swore under his breath, hoping the idiotic narrator could hear.

Archie's eyes widened, "Excuse me?"

"Not you," he growled, looking skyward.

The psychologist cleared his throat, "Right. Well. Good night then." He reached for his scarf, tightening it around his neck, "I'll take care of the Lucas account tomorrow?"

_Nicholas Gold didn't care if the Lucas accounts were settled tomorrow. Or next week, or the week after. No. Gold's mind drifted to the_ other  _debtor, Miss French. Thoughts of the bookstore owner had been plaguing his every moment since their encounter in the bookstore, and, Gold was finding out, his thoughts defied reason. Never before had they been so decided by emotion-_

"Shut the hell up!"

Archie coughed awkwardly into his hand, "Are you sure you're alright?"

Gold sighed, rubbing his temples, "Perhaps…perhaps a few days' off would be beneficial."

His employee gave a comforting smile, "I couldn't agree more. You know where to find me if you need me."

"Of course," Gold mumbled, before thinking better of it and tacking on a, "Thank you."

"Goodnight then," Archie nodded, grabbing his jacket and heading out of the shop.

Gold hesitated for a few moments, staring at his ceiling as if daring the voice to speak. Hearing only silence, he then went about the process of closing up his shop and heading home, picking up his mobile and placing it into his pocket.

The streets of Storybrooke were nearly deserted as Gold traveled down them, a slight chill in the air from an earlier rainstorm hit him, causing Gold to shrug his jacket around him tighter. Puddles lined the sides of the road, reflecting the light from the streetlamps as the day faded into night. Gold paid these things no matter, however, as his mind preoccupied.

So preoccupied, that it failed to notice a customer leaving Granny's Diner across the street. A very familiar customer. Who was also the owner of the bookstore and all its property- including long tables. Belle, preoccupied with her own troubles, stared at the ground as she walked parallel to him across the road.

_Mr. Gold's Blackberry, sensing a missed opportunity, decided to take action._

Gold frowned, looking up. Just as he was about to start walking again, he felt his mobile begin to ring. With a heavy sigh, he began to fish it out of his jacket's pocket.

_The Blackberry grew frustrated, tired with the constant neglect from Mr. Gold._

The phone continued to vibrate as Gold fished for it. Belle kept walking, not noticing him.

_For too long it had managed every aspect of Mr. Gold's life. And, truth be told, Mr. Gold's life was impersonal and boring. Here was a chance to change that if only Mr. Gold would listen to his Blackberry-_

Gold found the phone, and he brought it to his face. French. Again. He scowled, preparing to flip the phone open when he looked across the street.

And saw the retreating form of Belle French as she turned the corner-

The phone vibrated again, and Gold swore as the sudden buzz disrupted his thoughts, absently dropping the phone. It bounced against the pavement, rolling off of the curb.

Into a puddle.

"Damn it," Gold grit his teeth as he bent down to retrieve it, Belle disappearing from view and a shooting pain gripping his knee as he fished his phone out of the puddle. Irritated beyond belief, he shook the remaining water from the Blackberry and slid it into his pocket.

He'd have to dry it out tonight. Like hell he was going to be purchasing a new phone.

_And as Nicholas Gold pocketed the now silenced Blackberry, he began to once again start his trek home. Where he would be greeted by an empty house, a meal for one, and a few short news stories before he retired for bed._

At least the damned voice was beginning to return to a normal narration. One that didn't focus itself on inanimate objects or women who were deliberately failing to pay rent-

_But little did he know that the simple, innocuous acts of that evening would eventually lead to his imminent death._

Gold's foot stopped mid-step. His cane scraped to a stop against the sidewalk.

"What."

 


	4. Little Did He Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imminent Death. And Ducklings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the hits, kudos, and bookmarks!

Shards of glass flew, and Gold twisted his face just enough to avoid the worst of the flying debris as he reared his cane back and struck at the display case again. And again. The objects beneath, he thought with a detached, latent form of sensibility were jewelry. It was alright to smash this display case, the damages wouldn't be sustaining to the merchandise. And so it was, again and again he brought down the cane until there was nothing recognizable to it.

"Mr. Gold, distraught and furious, brought down his cane with notable force against the pristine surface of the display case-" Gold bit out, going to the next one and slamming down again with his cane. It shattered, and this time he realized that the case held a delicate model ship within it. Too late. The cane crashed again, "-destroying an irreplaceable replica of the Lady Annabella-"

Again he broke a case. Again the narrator, for once, seemed to have no comment. Time for a new approach.

Gold slammed his cane back to the floor and stalked toward the back of his shop, "Mr. Gold was a man of furious temper-"

Nothing. The Voice was remaining silent.

He approached the safe, dialing it open, "Nicholas Gold was a man of fortune and vast wealth and-" what had been that last part again? Solitude? "-Solitude?"

Nothing. 

Gold could feel the massive wave of hysteria start to pass, and he sunk, bonelessly into his swiveled chair, "Nicholas Gold wondered out lot how to stem the prospect of imminent death."

Silence.

He sighed, leaning back and looking upwards. For once, solitude was starting to feel like a bad thing.

In the front of the shop, a light fixture that was hanging by a few cords snapped off and fell, on yet another display case.

* * *

Archie was pretty sure he had straightened his glasses for about the fifth time, "Well, you see Ms. Lucas-"

"Ruby, Archie."

"…Ruby, it looks like your payment was off a few times this past year…"

Across the table, the only response that Archie was given was a rather over the top and dramatic roll of the eyes, "Why do you work for that monster?"

Archie cleared his throat, nervously shuffling the papers out of the manila folder, "And because of that, there's an outstanding balance of…" his eyes widened as he did a final run-threw of the numbers, "…twenty-three dollars and fifty-four cents. Huh." Maybe he hadn't been doing Mr. Gold a favor by taking the Lucas accounts, seeing as the sum total was a significantly small number.

"He can take the twenty-three dollars from my cold, dead hands."

Maybe he had.

Archie sighed, "I know it's not…the best of leases, but it's still legally binding-"

"Ugh, first Belle and now you with this legally binding crap." Ruby groaned, looking over her shoulder to make sure no customers straggled in. It was technically her break, and while she didn't mind spending the half hour in Archie's company, she wasn't in favor of spending it talking about late returns and fiscal responsibilities and whatever other buzzword for "robbing you blind" Mr. Gold had concocted.

"It's not crap," was all Archie could offer, straightening his glasses for want of something to do with his hands besides fidget. Ruby's company brought that out in him.

"You still haven't answered my question as to why you work for him."

Archie looked down, and gave a sigh, before closing the manila folder. Obviously the grand total of twenty-three dollars and fifty-four cents wasn't going to be resolved until Mrs. Lucas arrived, "I imagined-"

"What? Cushy late fees? A nicer office building? A bonus of blood sweat and tears-"

"-that even people like Mr. Gold could use a friend."

Ruby immediately colored, biting down on her lip, "Sorry. That was uncalled for."

Archie gave a slump of his shoulders, "I know it's…hard to imagine, but Mr. Gold is just as human as any of us-"

"Really hard to imagine," Ruby took a sip of her coffee, "You know he's out to sue Belle, right?"

Archie grimaced at that. Miss French was a very kind, brave young woman. And her bookstore was one of Archie's favorite places to practice his knitting- she often let him look at pattern books for free, "I didn't know that, no."

"Who could sue  _Belle_. I mean, I could see him suing me maybe, but Belle does book-drives for Kindergarteners'. And for the people in Storybrooke prison."

Archie nodded, "The Books for Crooks campaign, right?"

Ruby gave a grunt as she took another drink, "Apparently they're big on Nicholas Sparks."

A comfortable silence fell between the pair, as Ruby started to add another sugar packet to her drink and Archie began to tidy up his area. It was nice of her to let him use one of their booths for his financial work, just like she did every Tuesday, usually with a complimentary slice of cheesecake. Ruby Lucas was a far kinder person than she gave herself credit for.

"…I don't think you should be sued." The words were out before Archie could reign them back in.

Ruby stared at him, confusion overtaking her very, very pretty features, "What?"

Archie cleared his throat, "Earlier, you said you could see Mr. Gold suing you. I…I don't think you should be sued, either."

The waitress tilted her head and smiled, "Aw, you're cute."

He was pretty sure he felt the same shade as his hair, "So maybe I'll just…borrow you the twenty-three dollars and fifty-four cents."

Her nose wrinkled, "You think he'd sue for that much?"

"You only need twenty dollars to go to civil court."

"What a beast."

"A beast with a gift for litigation," Archie sighed, "Though maybe we should refrain from the name-calling?"

"Whatever you say, Archie."

He placed his files in his leather satchel, the buckle snapping down with a clean click, "I was reviewing your lease files earlier, and I noticed that there was a conditional that we could maybe take a look at…"

Ruby's eyes narrowed, "Conditional?"

He nodded, again going to straighten his glasses, "Every five years, Mr. Gold put the conditional that the leasing agreement can be revised. If my spreadsheets-" Ruby gave a snort at the word, but Archie bravely pressed on, "-are correct, that's coming up next week. I could…"

"You could?"

"I could take a look at them, if you want. I'll admit that my expertise isn't in contracts but I could maybe review some of the numbers-"

"Isn't that like being a double agent? You work for Mr. Gold."

Archie looked down, only semi-guiltily, "Mr. Gold was the one who put the conditional in the contract in the first place…"

Ruby gave a bonafide squeal of delight, the sound of which made the psychologist slash accountant straighten in his seat, "That'd be great! We can really stick it to-"

"-I don't really intend to "stick it" to anyone-"

"-and Gran can finally save up to buy that new oven! You're a lifesaver, Archie!" Ruby declared, leaning over and giving him a hug. Even though a formica table, two saucers of coffee, a leather satchel, a half-eaten slice of cheesecake, and two sets of silverware were between them, Archie still managed to give the tinniest bit of a manly swoon. Before awkwardly patting her back.

"It…was just a suggestion…"

"The best suggestion ever, quite frankly," Ruby said leaning back in her seat and Archie felt, for the briefest of moments, a very profound sense of loneliness at the lack of her warmth, "I'll talk to Granny."

Archie smiled, "I'm happy to help."

Ruby opened her mouth to speak, but the sound of the bell by the door paused her statement, she turned, and her face fell, "Speak of the devil," she muttered under her breath.

Nicholas Gold stood in the doorway to Granny's. His tie halfway done, what looked like some blood peeking out from beneath his hairline, and pocket-square suspiciously missing.

Also he looked a little deranged.

There was that too.

Archie's eyebrows knit in concern, "Mr. Gold? Are you alright?"

Gold walked over to the table, his normally steady gait offset by the frantic expression on his face, "I've been looking everywhere for you," he paused, noticing Archie had company on the other side of his booth, "Miss Lucas, a moment, if you would."

She snorted, throwing down her dish towel on the table, "My break's over, anyways." She sent Archie a look that he was sure was supposed to be meaningful, but as he tried to concern its significance, she slid away and Mr. Gold almost immediately took her spot.

"Do you want anything?" The waitress asked Gold with no small amount of disdain.

"Tea. Please." A pause, "Decaffeinated."

"Sure." With a considerably warmer tone she turned to him, "Archie? Anything?"

"…Maybe some coffee."

"You got it. Good luck with the monster."

Gold scowled at that, but she was gone before he could offer a quip in return. Archie slowly took off his glasses, giving them a methodical clean with his sweater vest.

"So…you seem…stressed."

"I hear a voice inside my head."

Archie stopped mid-lens, situating the glasses back on his face and trying to ignore the fact that one was half smudged, "Beg your pardon?"

"In my head. There's a voice."

If this had been anyone, absolutely  _anyone_ other than Gold, Archie would have suspected he was on the butt end of a joke. As it was, "…what sort of voice?"

"A narrator. One with a more flamboyant and at times manic tone."

"You…hear a narrator?"

"Yes. I believe I've asserted that well enough at this point."

"And it's…telling you to do things?"

"No, it's telling me what I'm already doing."

Archie gave a very slow, calculated blink. In his years of school, and his following as a professional in the field, this presented a very new problem, "What you're…already doing."

"Sometimes. It comes and goes."

"The voice isn't constant?"

Gold grit his teeth, and Archie could sense his annoyance between the formica table, two cups of coffee, half eaten slice of cheesecake, and two sets of silverware, "No. It disappears occasionally, as if it's off telling other parts of the story."

"So you think you're in a book?"

"Something like that."

Archie cleared his throat, "Maybe you'd like to continue this conversation down at my office-?"

The sound of Gold's cane slamming against the floor gave a sharp interruption. "No. There might not be time for that."

"Why not?"

"Because the voice said something about imminent death. Now, are you or are you not deserving of that doctorate, Dr. Hopper?"

Archie, not used to such…aggression from his employer, shook his head to regain his thoughts and composure, "You have a narrator warning you of imminent death?"

"That's right. Why?"

Archie pinched his nose, "Well, and this is in no way an official diagnosis, by any means, under any circustances, generally speaking-"

"Out with it!"

"- a voice inside your head indicates schizophrenia. "

Gold inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring slightly, "It's not schizophrenia."

"I said it wasn't an official diagnosis-"

"The voice isn't telling me to  _do_ anything. It just. It's omniscient. And in the third person," he paused, leaning forward, "Does that have any significance?"

"The point of view?"

"Yes."

Archie gave a shrug, "I…I can only offer my experience as a psychologist, but generally no, the point of view is a smaller factor in cases of schizophrenia."

"It's not schizophrenia," Gold leaned back, and thoughts of dusty books, long tables, and beautiful eyes assaulted him, "It's…literary."

"I'd suggest talking to Miss French then, but…it seems you've made a poor impression."

Gold didn't miss the slightest hint of accusation there, and his eyebrows rose at Archie in surprise.

"She donates romance novels to prisoners," he countered diplomatically.

"Of course she does," Gold muttered, "I…I can't talk to Miss French about this. And it's not schizophrenia. In your opinion, what should I do?"

"Then I guess…" Archie frowned, tugging at his collar. This was the first time Gold had asked him his advice since…well, ever, "I guess the next logical step would be to talk to someone who knows a lot about writing."

* * *

The coffee hit August's tongue with a fiery vengeance, and he swished it around in his mouth experimentally before taking a swallow. His tongue was burned, and now his landlord wanted to talk to him, not the best of days. It was good coffee too, not that he would be able to taste it anymore.

He looked up from his mug to stare across his kitchen table. On the other side sat the aforementioned landlord, his hands folded over his cane and his face drawn into a tight expression that August had come to associate with his late payments.

"So you think you're in a book," August said, taking another long sip from his mug. Gold winced at the slurping sound.

"Potentially," Gold said in a strained tone.

"Huh."

"Aren't writers supposed to be more…loquacious?"

August's eyebrows rose behind his mug, "Loquacious. Now there's a big word."

"It appears my vocabulary has been exponentially expanded as of late."

"Exponentially. There's another."

Gold scowled, leaning forward, "I suppose now's the time where I mention that I am in ownership of the building you live in?"

August made a dismissive hand motion, "I'm a wanderlust king. The writer never stays in one place too long- don't roll your eyeballs, Gold, that's probably why you're in this position- or the plot gets stagnate." He tilted his head, "Part of why I don't get someone would be writing a book where you're the main character, no offense."

He frowned at that. It was one thing to be told by a third person omniscient that you were doomed to die, imminently at that, it was quite another to be told you don't make a compelling protagonist, "Are you trying to imply something, Mr. Booth?"

"August, please. Mr. Booth is so…antiquated." He leaned back in his seat, "Maybe," he lifted his mug, "How much do you think this mug costs?"

Gold scowled. "The relevance of this, Mr. Booth?"

"Just take a guess."

_Sums and figures danced around Nicholas's mind. The mug was cheap, ceramic. Likely bought at a thrift store or had been in Booth's careless possession for a multitude of years. The painting of the pink kitten on the side did little to instill an intrinsic value to it._

"Fifty-cents."

August made a mock wince, "Harsh. But true. How about the coffee?"

_Mr. Gold took a deep inhale, he cared little for coffee, preferring the subtle nuances of flavor to be found in tea instead, but coffee was typically present at business meetings. Good coffee made impressions._

"Considerably more expensive than the mug."

August nodded, setting the mug down and folding his hands over his stomach, "So you're a loan shark-"

"Creditor."

"Who makes a living screwing people out of their earnings-"

"Maintaining legal contracts."

"-anything else? Besides the rummage store-"

"Pawn shop."

"Same difference, narratively speaking."

Gold exhaled, "I do some legal work."

"Lawyer?"

A nod.

August nodded in return, "I guess that might have some potential. Married?"

Gold glared at him, his jaw setting tight, "Once."

"Divorced?"

"She left me for a pirate."

August perked up with genuine interest for perhaps the first time since Gold had sauntered into his apartment like he owned the place. Which he did. But that was beside the point, "Swashbuckling kind?"

"...corporate buy-out kind."

The interest deflated. He could've worked with  _pirate_ pirate. "Kids?"

The grip on his cane became tighter, August could see his knuckles go white, "The point of these questions, Booth?"

"Just Booth now. Interesting." August leaned forward again, taking the pen and notebook that lay on the table and jotting something down. Gold's teeth grit, "You live alone?"

"Yes."

"Pets?"

"Absolutely not."

"Friends?"

His mind briefly flitted to the red-haired accountant, "Not particularly."

"Hm," August stood up, taking his kitten mug with him as he walked into the kitchen. The water started to run, as did the continued questions. "What's the narrator sound like?"

Gold sighed, standing up and following him to the kitchen, "What?"

August stopped the running water, turning around and leaning against the sink, "Your narrator, what's he sound like?"

Gold frowned, "…eccentric."

August rose his eyebrows, taking another drink from that ghastly mug, "A man?"

Gold nodded.

"Is it someone you know?"

"It doesn't sound familiar, no."

"Hm."

Gold gripped the handle of his cane. The irritating writer had been saying that monosyllabic expression a lot.

"Do you want some coffee?"

"No. I prefer tea."

August smirked, "Of course you do."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that you're starting to sound more caricature than character."

Gold had to resist the very strong urge to crush that offensive mug with his cane.

August walked to the fridge, pulling out a jar of pickles, some mayonnaise, and a container of turkey, "Sandwich?"

"The threat of death has made my appetite somewhat displaced."

He nodded, unscrewing the lid to the jar. Some mayo got on his finger and he licked it off. Gold grimaced, certain now that this man's abhorrent mannerisms were on purpose, "So this narrator of yours told you that you were going to die?"

A tight nod.

"And you believed it?"

"That would explain my presence here."

"Oooh, sarcasm. Refreshing." August pulled out two slices of Wonderbread and began to prepare his sandwich, "Do you like your work?"

"It doesn't make me unhappy."

"Double negative. Skirting the question, got it." He then proceeded to put an ungodly amount of pickles on the spread, "Let me ask you a question."

"You've been doing a remarkable job as of late."

"If I told you that you were going to die tomorrow, would you believe me?"

"No."

"Why not."

"Because, quite frankly, I find your intelligence level more and more suspect as this conversation continues."

"Says the guy with a voice talking to him-"

" _About_ me."

"Same difference. Anyways, my point is I don't think I can help you."

That made Gold's irritation fall away as another, more familiar emotion replaced it: desperation. "Why not?"

August closed the fridge door, sighing as he picked up his now complete turkey sandwich, "Because I'm an expert-" Gold snorted, "-in writing. Not an expert in crazy. Honestly, I can't think of a single aspect of your life that makes it worth narration. You live alone, you don't like anyone, and your manner is so off-putting that I doubt anything short of the visitation of three Christmas spirits will make a notable shift in it."

"I'm not crazy," Gold countered immediately, though secretly the paranoid thought was beginning to filter itself in his mind, "And I assure you that your lease agreement for next term is going to be far more severe."

August gave a shrug of his shoulders, "Keep a journal, talk to Archie. That's all I have for you. Now, if you don't mind, I have three chapters to finish by Friday and my protagonist, who, by the way, is nuanced, is being a little difficult at the moment-"

"There was a third person omniscient."

The younger man's dismissal halted mid-sentence, "What? You know what a third person omniscient is?"

Gold snorted, "I am quite well-read, thank you. But I remember the final words and I think they have some significance to the direction of this conversation, ' _But little did he know that the simple, innocuous acts of that evening would eventually lead to his imminent death.'_ "

"Son of a bitch, he really said "Little did he know"?"

"Clearly."

August perked up, suddenly seeming far more invested as he dug in his pocket, "Little did he know means there's something you don't know, which means that there's something else outside of your life going on. It's one of the most important literary devices-"

"I assume this means I've certified my "caricature" existence?"

"-You can assume that it means you're screwed," August retrieved a pocket calendar, flipping it open, "Why don't you come back next week and we'll, wait, damn, "imminent", you can be dead by then, how about tomorrow? Can you come back tomorrow?"

"For what purpose?"

August smirked, "We're going to find out what sort of story you're in, Mr. Gold."

"Two seconds ago you said I was insane."

"Crazy, not insane. But either way, it's been a very revealing two seconds."

Mr. Gold gave a heavy sigh, "Then I suppose I'll be back tomorrow."

"Good, and Mr. Gold?"

"Yes?"

"The kitten mug cost me seventy-five cents. Rummage sale."

* * *

Gold wasn't sure why it was the park that his feet led him to, following August's abrupt dismissal. But there was something about the tree-lined walkways and pebbled sidewalks that set his mind at ease despite the several existential crises he had been experiencing ever since those damned innocuous acts.

_Nicholas Gold was deep in thought._

Obviously Nicholas Gold was deep in thought. Nicholas Gold had just been told of his imminent death. Omnisciently, at that. The birds chirped quietly as he continued his scenic walk back to his home, the gravel underfoot giving a nice, crunching noise.

_With all of nature surrounding him, all the contracts, all the deals, and all the numerical precisions of Gold's life quietly faded away._

He forced himself to take a deep breath, and to yet again refrain from contemplating the actuality of the day's events and his relative sanity to them. Now was not the time. There was too much to think about, and not enough peaceful moments to avoid thinking about them.

_How perfect, then, that on this tranquil walk Nicholas Gold would encounter one Miss Belle French._

As Gold turned, he noticed that the bookstore owner was currently occupying one of the benches that lined the pathway, a loaf of bread in her hands. She was tearing it into chunks, tossing it down at the small ducklings by her feet, a frown on her face and a mechanic quality to her motions that suggested her thoughts were long-gone elsewhere.

Gold felt his feet come to a stop.

She really did have such pretty eyes.

"Miss French," he greeted, before he could stop himself.

Belle froze, blinking herself into awareness. A smile graced her features before she realized who was addressing her. Quickly, she started shoveling her things into her purse.

"Miss French there's no need to leave-"

She ignored him, moving even more quickly and before Gold could rationalize what he was doing he was taking a step closer to her.

"Miss French, really-"

A stray hand knocked the cane from his grip, and as it clattered on the ground Belle paused and Gold looked down at her, meeting that remarkable stare.

"I'm sorry-!" Belle started.

"It'll recover," he offered, bending down with a wince to retrieve it.

She sighed, moving faster than he with his bad knee and picking it up for him, "It's not…it's not cracked or anything, is it?"

Delicately, he took the cane back from her, "I imagine if smashing through a dozen display cases won't damage it, a drop on the ground will do little by way of destruction."

Belle paused, staring at him with a confused look that made it clear she couldn't determine if he was serious or not. He offered a slow grin.

She hesitated, but returned it, "Right. Got it."

The silence stretched painfully for a second or two, before Gold cleared his throat, taking a step back, "Do you come to the park often?" He winced.

She stared at him, "Yes."

Silence again.

"I do too."

"That's nice."

Mr. Gold swallowed, the ducklings underfoot beginning to reform near the woman who was feeding them after being scared away with the cane's fall.

"It's…it's a nice day."

Belle looked at him wryly, "For you, perhaps. I'm being sued."

The ducklings began to waddle around his very expensive Italian shoes. Gold feared for their ability to remain clean.

"Of course, Miss French."

She tilted her head, "By a really unpleasant man, too."

Another awkward moment emerged. Belle took up the bread again, tearing off portions and tossing it on the ground for the ducklings. Gold noticed that she took particular aim at his shoes.

He cleared his throat, folding his hands over the handle of his cane, "I may owe you an apology, Miss French."

"For the suing?"

"For my earlier behavior. It was…unprofessional."

She paused in her duckling feeding to cross her arms over her chest, "The part where you fined my father into poverty or the part where you blatantly stared at my breasts?"

He felt something like heat rush to his cheeks, but dismissed such an occurrence as impossible, "…the latter."

She stared at him for a few moments, and Gold wondered why it was that a young bookstore owner was the only person to make him feel uncomfortable in this town, "…Apology accepted, mainly because you blushed."

The smile made its way to his face before he could stop it, "I do no such thing, Miss French."

"Belle. And you did. Are doing," she smiled back, and he noticed she had dimples. They were lovely, as far as dimples went.

Adult ducks were now starting to filter towards them, joining their ducklings in the feast of free stale bread chunks. They, too, waddled over Gold's feet.

"It seems good manners are in short supply for creditors."

"Loan sharks," Belle corrected.

"Semantics," he replied easily.

She leaned forward, resting her arms on her skirted knees, "So do you make a habit of apologizing to people before bringing them to civil claims court?"

He couldn't help his grin, "Not generally, no. It turns out apologizes can be taken as an admission of guilt in some circles."

"I'm sure that ruins the image of blood-sucking fiend."

"Which is why I make sure all the children shed at least one tear when they're being evicted from orphanages."

Again, she gave him that stare that said she couldn't discern if he was joking or not.

He coughed into his leather-gloved hand, "A quip, Miss French."

She exhaled in relief before giving a slight chuckle, "I'm sure you manage to confiscate all their stuffed toys and blankets as well?"

"Only the ones that give them any semblance of comfort or hope."

She laughed, and again Gold was treated to the sight of her dimples.

_Sensing an opportunity, Nicholas attempted small talk._

"Your fiscal documents are kept very tidy."

_Weakly attempted small talk._

"Thank you. I keep them that way in the event of legal prosecution."

_Gold began to calculate the odds of his making an utter ass of himself with the amount of time he stayed to chat with the beautiful Belle French. Thankfully, a decision was to be made for him in that respect._

Belle looked at her watch, "As lovely as it's been chatting with the evictor of orphans, I have to go," she stood, gracefully brushing away stray crumbs of bread from her light-blue skirt. She outstretched the hand holding the stale loaf of bread towards him, "Would you?"

Confused, Gold took the loaf of bread.

Belle smiled, and gave a mock curtsy, "Thank you."

Before Gold really understood what was happening, Belle lifted her purse over her shoulder and began to walk away from the park. He stood there, blinking, as several ducks and ducklings began to swarm towards him and the loaf of bread.

_He was delighted, and surprised at the almost flirtatious encounter with Miss French._

He watched her as she retreated, becoming a smaller and smaller splash of blue and chestnut against the backdrop of the trees.

_So surprised, that he failed to notice one of the male ducklings taking a rather liberal shit on his expensive, leather shoes._

Gold looked down and swore.


End file.
